


Normal People Problems

by brightbulbs



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Domestic Bliss, Fluff, M/M, Some hurt/comfort, taking care of each other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-07
Updated: 2014-07-05
Packaged: 2018-02-03 17:04:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 13
Words: 19,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1752206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brightbulbs/pseuds/brightbulbs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian and Mickey are living together and dealing with everything from stubbed toes to headaches to twisted ankles and bruised knees. You know, normal people problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Stubbed Toes

It had been a couple months, and Ian is still getting used to the layout of their new house -- especially their bedroom.

At the moment, it's a mishmash of furniture with Mickey's old dresser shoved up against the wall by the door and Ian's nightstand right beside the bed. A few boxes litter the living room still, some of the boxes containing odds and ends Debbie had found. She had dug up the items from the Gallagher basement during her great spring clean up venture before her graduation; an old carpet, some blankets, empty frames, lampshades, a dusty ottoman, and a wooden chest filled with costume jewelry and black and white newspaper clippings. A few items, she took with her to university - a blanket, a couple photo frames, the jewelry, and the newspaper cutouts which she swears will be useful for her Women's Studies minor. She packed up the rest, and brought it to the Gallagher-Milkovich housewarming party. The rest of the boxes are filled with items from their childhood bedrooms, tossed carelessly together. Right now, they're too lazy to sort through it all, too content with what they have at the moment, but it's not like they're pressed for time to get settled in.

After everything they've gone through together, they've decided to take it slow. 

Their bed is just a queen size. The legs on the frame are raised up a considerable amount, allowing for storage underneath; storage for Mickey's "toys" and old comic books. However, it's not so easy for either of them to get in and out of bed - especially Mickey. The edge of the bed comes up to Mickey's hips which require him to pull himself up by pressing his palms into the mattress before hoisting his knees onto the bed and crawling over to his place beside Ian. Ian more effortlessly slides into bed, lifting up off his toes before gently moving beside Mickey. He jokes about placing the old wooden chest at the foot of their bed so it'd be easier for Mickey to get in and out. Mickey flips him off, but considers it anyways. Sometimes it's convenient though, when they're in the mood. It gives Ian an excuse to lift Mickey by the waist and toss him on the mattress when Mickey is begging for it rough; wanting to be manhandled with Ian's fingers digging into his hips and Ian's body towering over him. Other days, Mickey just wants to lay down after his shift at the garage. Ian will find him, torso laying on top of the mattress with his feet still planted on the floor. All jokes aside, Ian places the wooden chest at the foot of the bed and Mickey uses it shamelessly to climb in and out.  

Their bedroom fills up with furniture steadily - the bed, the dresser, the wooden chest, the night stand, a couple bins filled with more clothes, and a lamp or two. So used to getting up during the night to use the bathroom or grab a glass of water back at the Gallagher residence, Ian struggles in the darkness to find his way out the door. The room is practically a mine field with sharp wooden edges everywhere. He could lose a toe at any moment, but takes the risk anyways, nearly stumbling each time until he eventually makes it to the door. Finding his way back is usually easier than finding his way there. Usually. 

It's two in the morning and Ian's bladder is screaming at him. Mickey is passed out on his stomach, naked ass in the air with his face buried contently in his pillow. Ian had been on his side, back facing the wall with a hand resting possessively on one of Mickey's ass cheeks. It's the one with the scar, which he traced lazily as Mickey drooled out of the corner of his mouth. Ian jerks awake and rubs Mickey's ass gently to wake him up. Mickey grunts softly, barely opening his eyes. 

"Sorry babe, gotta piss," Ian says apologetically. 

Mickey nods, curling his legs up to his chest in a sleepy daze so that Ian can climb over him safely. Ian had tried to do this before without waking Mickey, but it had ended up with Mickey's reflexes kicking in and the both of them landing on the floor. Ian places his feet on the wooden floorboards and gives his eyes a moment to adjust to the dark, a rough outline of the furniture coming into view. He nearly trips over Mickey's shoe, but manages to make it to the bathroom door. He's able to enter the bathroom safely and flicks on the light, instinctively squinting at the bright florescent white. Rubbing his eyes with the edge of his palms, he can see colors dot his vision and it makes him dizzy for a moment. When he finishes his business, he makes his way to the bedroom steadily again albeit more disoriented than he was getting out of bed. He stumbles sideways, his big toe catching on the dresser.

"Fuck," Ian hisses loudly, unmoving. Mickey immediately pushes himself up. "Jesus, I heard a crack - you okay?"

"I'm fine," Ian says. He tries to flex his toe but hisses more. "I think," he adds.

Unsatisfied, Mickey turns over onto his back and sits up a bit more. He crosses his legs, and reaches over to turn on the lamp sitting on the nightstand. "You sure? C'mere, let me look at it."

Ian wobbles over, hissing with every step, while Mickey yawns and motions for Ian to sit beside him. He lifts Ian's leg gently and holds his foot in his lap, carefully looking at the sensitive toe. He touches it as carefully as he can, not wanting to hurt Ian. There's a small scratch but the skin isn't broken, the real problem being that it's a little red and starting to swell. It'll probably bruise later and it's definitely not going to be fun to walk on for a couple days, he thinks. He instructs Ian to lay down on his back, and he does. Mickey places a pillow under Ian's foot, and gets up to head downstairs. Ian sighs, "It's fine, Mickey. Really." 

"Shh," is all Mickey says when he makes it past the door frame. Ian hears the thump of his feet down the stairs, and back up again another moment later. Mickey comes back with a bag of peas wrapped in a washcloth and places it carefully under the elevated foot. After reaching over to turn off the light, he wraps an arm around Ian's waist and kisses his shoulder. 

"G'night," he says sleepily. 

Ian's hand comes up to ruffle Mickey's black hair. His toe still throbs a little, but the cool sensation of the peas dulls the pain and helps him relax. He sighs with relief and smiles down at his love who falls asleep soon after cuddling into his side. Ian bends his head down to kiss the top of the sleeping man's head.

"Night."

 


	2. Tummy Aches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> emetophobia tw -- discussions of nausea in this chapter

The walk back from the hot dog cart is the worst as the food sits heavily in Mickey's stomach. Ian's still munching on his second hot dog, and Mickey can't look at him without feeling his food come back up in his throat. The meat, the toppings, and the bread - it's all too much. Hell, if he even thinks about eating another hot dog, he might just lose his dinner right on the sidewalk. With each step he takes, he feels like someone is punching him in the gut. All he can think of is passing out and sleeping it off, not wanting to suffer the feeling of reliving his meal. He's tempted to do just that, to lay on the side walk and take a nap, but he blinks his eyes and lets out a deep breath, willing himself to walk on.

Ian observes his grumpy expression and asks, "You feeling okay?"

"Just keep walking," Mickey responds, cranky and monotone. 

It's his own fault, really, and he knows it. He had forgotten to eat his lunch at work, the one that Ian had prepared for him. It happens sometimes. He gets so focused in the garage that he loses all sense of time. That's why he came home starving after his shift and begging Ian to go out to get a quick bite to eat with him. Nothing more than some simple and cheap street food. Some Chicago dogs so he could stop himself from crashing, and crashing fast from the lack of calories to burn. Ian offered to make him something at home, but there was no way he was going to wait for pasta to boil. If they ordered takeout, it would still take too long to get there. He was hungry then and there, and nothing was going to stop him from getting that hot dog.   

So, Ian put on his coat and they headed out the door - Mickey already dressed appropriately for the late October weather. They found a hot dog stand not far from home, and Mickey practically inhaled four Chicago dogs. In the moment, he was too satisfied to care about the aftermath, the first bite hitting the pleasure center of his brain so hard he was seeing stars. Now, he's really paying for it, regretting his decision to satisfy his immediate desires with little concern for the long term effects. 

Overeating has a funny effect on the human body. It kind of feels like you're dying, Mickey thinks. You feel like you're going to die if you don't throw up. You feel like you're dying if and when you do throw up. You feel like overeating is the single worst decision you have ever made in your entire existence, even if the feeling usually passes fairly quickly. It just feels like swallowing a never ending cocktail of nausea, self-hatred, and regret. That's exactly how Mickey feels, curled up in bed a few minutes after they get in the door. Mickey had ditched his jacket, throwing it onto the couch, and braved the stairs to their bedroom. He slipped into one of Ian's hoodies before climbing into bad, facing the wall on Ian's side of the bed and curling up into a little ball of self-loathing after doing so. 

Mickey groans and buries his face into Ian's pillow, smelling hints of his shampoo there. It smells a bit like peppermint, which calms his stomach if only slightly. Yes, there's only a hint of it but he grabs the pillow tightly and hugs it close to his body to take in the smell. He can hear Ian in the background fussing around in the bathroom. He's filling something with water, and the medicine cabinet is being opened. Mickey's eyes are already closed but he realizes Ian is beside him when the bed dips. Ian places a glass of water on the nightstand, and hands Mickey a few antacids. Mickey curls up more than seemingly possible and whines pathetically. 

"C'mon. Take the pills, Mick," Ian says in a low whisper, rubbing Mickey's back slowly. With a huff, Mickey rolls onto his back and sits himself up to take the antacids with the glass of water. 

"This sucks so bad," Mickey groans, tossing his head back to down another pill. "I'm never doing that shit again. This is the worst decision I have ever made. Ever," he emphasizes.

Ian rolls his eyes at Mickey's dramatics. "Yeah, you probably shouldn't have wolfed down that many hot dogs."

"Yeah?" Mickey glares at him. "Well next time, do me a favor and stop me." 

"I tried that," Ian sighs, mildly frustrated with the grumpy man beside him. "I told you that you should slow down, but you told me - and I quote - 'fuck off, I'm starving'" 

Mickey grunts in response, closing his eyes. 

"Whatever."

That's when Ian sneaks his hand underneath the hoodie Mickey is wearing, rubbing Mickey's stomach in small circles. Mickey feels himself sink into the bed, all tension leaving his body under Ian's ministrations to his aching stomach.

"Hmmn," Mickey moans. "Don't stop." 

Ian's frustration with Mickey fades and he smiles down at him. "Don't stop what, Mick," he says teasingly.  

"That thing you're doing," Mickey replies, slipping further into a state of bliss, all thoughts of overeating replaced by euphoria. Ian continues to rub in small circles. "This feel real good, Mick?"

"Mm-hmn"

"Yeah? It feel real nice, huh?"

"Mm," Mickey replies, losing consciousness steadily. Ian waits until Mickey is nearly asleep, taking Mickey's even breathing in and out and his relaxed limbs as a sign that he's just about knocked out. Carefully, he lifts the hoodie and the shirt underneath to expose Mickey's midriff. He places his lips just above Mickey's belly button, sneaking his tongue in between them. He puffs up his cheeks, and looks up at Mickey's peaceful expression. That's when he blows a raspberry real hard into Mickey's skin, causing Mickey to nearly jump right out of bed. 

"What the fuck, Ian?" Mickey squeals. Ian laughs hysterically at the look on Mickey's face as he rubs frantically at the wet spot Ian left on his stomach.

"Damn. I've always wanted to do that," Ian says, delighted with himself and wiping tears out of his eyes. " _Your face_..."

"Hey, I'm the one with the aching belly and you just fucking blow-"

Ian cuts him off with a soft kiss, and Mickey relaxes into it. He tugs on Mickey's lower lip carefully with his teeth, and Mickey's brows furrow in concentration. After a minute or two, Ian pulls away with one last soft peck to his lips. 

"You feel better now?"

Mickey grumbles a "yes," and Ian sneaks his hands back underneath the hoodie, looping his fingers around Mickey's waist band.

"I wanna blow you for real," Ian says. With that, Mickey grins and leans back into the cushions as Ian unzips him, pulling the waistbands of his pants and boxers down. He reaches over to the glass of water on the nightstand, taking a sip and spitting into his hand. He begins to rub Mickey's cock, gripping the base of it and working his hand up before kissing and licking up the side of it. 

"So, uh, this still the worst decision you ever made?" Ian smiles up at him as Mickey grows hard in his grip. His expression is smug, knowing the sway he has over Mickey, right before taking Mickey into this mouth.

"Mmm," is all Mickey manages, arching his back into the pillows as Ian goes down on him. If stomach aches always ended in blow jobs, he's tempted, but he's still not doing that shit ever again. At least not until the next time he forgets to eat at work and comes home starving only to wolf down street food that'll inevitably give him a belly ache. Ian will just have to nurse him back to health. He's good like that. Then maybe yeah, maybe it's not so bad. 


	3. Twisted Ankles

"The fuck is that?" Mickey asks as Ian sets a box onto the dining room table.

"Open it up," Ian says and Mickey eyes Ian as Ian moves the box closer to him. Mickey slowly rips off the newspaper wrapping and places it in the plastic bag the box came in. Inwardly, Mickey panics thinking that he had missed an anniversary or another important event. If so, he didn't get Ian shit. Shit. Shit. Shit. He lifts off the top of the box anxiously, revealing a pair of black and blue running shoes - Nikes.  

"Uh..."

"They're your size. I checked, but I still want you to try them on," Ian rambles, bending down to untie Mickey's work boots. "I got them on clearance. They were $26, can you believe that? I had a coupon too for an additional 10% off so-"

"Ian," Mickey tries to interject.  

"I got them for - well actually, with my membership card I think it came down to $20?" Ian says, clearly proud of himself. 

"Ian..."

"Here, gimme your foot." After unlacing Mickey's work boots and pulling them off of his feet, Ian throws the books in the corner of the dining room and takes a seat at the head of the table. He lifts Mickey's leg up, placing Mickey's right foot in his lap, and reaches over to grab the right shoe. He slips it onto Mickey's foot with ease. "Aha! Perfect fit. For a second there, I worried I got the wrong size but then I remembered your feet are like two sizes smaller than mine."  

"Ian, what the fuck is this about?" Mickey asks, slightly worried, as Ian slips the left shoe onto his left foot. 

"What? Oh, you're going running with me," Ian says, keeping his attention on Mickey's foot as he ties up the laces on the new shoes. 

"I'm what?" Mickey leans in, turning his ear as if he didn't hear correctly. His eyebrows threaten to disappear into his hairline when he leans back in his chair again. "I need a smoke," he mutters, pulling out a cigarette from the box sitting on the table. 

"Ah-ah," Ian tsks, taking the cigarette out of his hand. "We gotta get those lungs in shape!"

"What the f-" Mickey tries to grab the cigarette back, but Ian holds it far away from him so his arms can't reach. "What makes you think I wanna go running with you, Ian?"

"C'mon, Mick," Ian whines. 

"What? You think you can win me over with fancy shoes?" Mickey wiggles his foot in Ian's lap. He has to admit, he kinda likes how they feel. Ian looks at him for a moment, the chin threatening to come out and wreak it's havoc on Mickey. He's heard legends about it: the chin. 

"Y'know, my," Ian pauses and looks down, pouting slightly, "therapist... she, she says it might really help me with routines and stuff if my partner was involved. I just thought, maybe-"

"Alright, enough," Mickey says, taking a deep breath and pinching the bridge of his nose. Ian is getting too good at this shit, exposing his weaknesses and using it against him. To be fair, he has been doing very well lately. He's back to being the health nut he was before, eating well and exercising. He still has his ups and downs, but it's been better. There's been bad days. Like days when Ian would feel so high he'd keep spending and spending until most of his paycheck was gone. Mickey looks at the shoes on his feet, and back at Ian. He feels bad for worrying, thinking that Ian was slipping back into it - not that they couldn't handle that. He is proud of him though, and he doesn't want to discourage this. "I don't got any clothes for this, though. You know that," Mickey continues.   

"No problem," Ian says, placing another bag on the counter and immediately pulling out its contents. There's a couple running shirts in deep grey with blue paneling that matches his shoes, as well as a few pairs of black shorts and black sweatpants. He was so tempted to buy spandex joggers but he's pretty sure that Mickey has a limit. No amount of puppy eyes and the chin is going to convince Mickey to squeeze his ass into a pair of those. That didn't stop Ian from standing there in the store aisle, spandex pants in hand, imagining those shapely legs and that ass. In those joggers. Jogging. Oh yeah, when he got Mickey home after a run, he'd have him bent over the couch in no time. 

"How much did you spend?" Mickey fixes him with an interrogating look. Ian snaps out of his reverie and takes a moment to do the calculations, scratching the back of his head anxiously. 

"Never mind," Mickey sighs, "I don't wanna know."

"I kinda guessed on the sizes. I tried on a few of the pants, and I figure if they were above my ankles a few good inches and a little loose around my butt, then they were fine."

“You saying I got a fat ass?" Mickey says in mock offense. 

"Nah, I'm saying I got a flat ass!" Ian jokes. 

“Pfft, yeah. Okay." Mickey rolls his eyes. Ian's ass is a nice muscled ass though. Just a bit under appreciated. "I'll go running with you, alright." Ian perks up like a puppy and Mickey gets up from his seat, heading towards the staircase. "...but I'm not getting up at five am!" He shouts, halfway up the stairs.   

"How about six?" Ian shouts back, folding up the clothes he bought on the dining room table. 

"Six-thirty," Mickey replies, and Ian grins. "Fine!"

* * *

 

That's how Mickey gets roped into waking up at six thirty in the fucking morning to go on a run with his boyfriend at the park. Ian actually gets him up at six fifteen on a Saturday to remind him they're going, and Mickey reverts back to a five year old refusing to get up to go to school as he lifts the blankets over his head and moans. 

Mickey takes his time running. He's pretty good at sprinting but he's not a marathon runner. If he takes off full speed, he knows he's going to run out of gas and Ian will have to drag his ass back home. Ian happily jogs ahead of him at a good pace, looping around a tree before coming back to his side. "On your left."

Mickey's eyes roll so far back into his head, he swears he caught a glimpse of his brain. "How many times you gotta quote that fuckin' movie? You keep quoting and the novelty wears off. Shit just gets annoying."

Ian barely hears him, running several feet ahead of him. Mickey wheezes. Shit, his lungs really aren't what they used to be. Maybe Ian has a point, he thinks, maybe he should cut down on the cigarettes. The air is a little chilly, making it that much harder to breathe. At least the clothes fit well. They're not too tight, though the pants are a little snug around his thighs and ass. They're warm, but he's not pooling with sweat and Milkoviches sweat a lot. It's not pretty. 

"Hey, Mick," Ian says, running back to Mickey's side. 

"Yeah," Mickey rasps out in between breaths. 

"Race you to that bench," Ian says, tapping Mickey's shoulder. He pushes himself forward real fast, as if Mickey would immediately take him up on the challenge. He would. Mickey loves a challenge. This man is going to be the death of me, Mickey thinks wheezing painfully. He picks up his pace knowing that he can't resist a little competition. Ian cuts through the grass to get to the bench quicker which would have given him a great advantage had his foot not collided with a tree root. He twists painfully, falling onto his hands and knees, rolling his ankle in the process.

"Shit!" Ian swears, gripping his ankle tightly and hissing. Mickey catches up to him, stopping right beside him. "The fuck did you do?"

"Rolled my ankle," Ian replies, gritting his teeth. 

“Shit, can you put pressure on it?"

"Let me see." Ian reaches his hand out for Mickey, who helps him up carefully. Using Mickey's shoulder to balance himself, he places his foot on the ground gently. Taking a few experimental steps forward, his ankle seems fine until it threatens to roll again due to lack of support.  

"Woah, there, tough guy" Mickey begins, putting a hand to Ian's chest to keep him upright, "Let me take a look at it." Mickey walks him over to the bench and sits him down. "It's swelling up like a baseball, man. You think you can make it to the car?"

Ian nods, getting up on his feet and leaning on Mickey's shoulder. They take it very slow, one step at a time. Mickey can't take the painfully slow pace, but Ian can't move any faster. He looks around him, as Ian pants and hisses with each step, before stopping altogether. "Ian, just... get on my back? It's gonna take forever like this."

"What," Ian looks him up and down, taking in his boyfriend's small frame, "Mick, but you're-"

"I've carried you before, jackass. I can carry you again," Mickey insists. "Now, get on my back." 

"O-okay." Ian loops around Mickey's neck as Mickey crouches down. He wraps his arms around Ian's legs, and hitches him up a bit so Ian's weight is distributed properly. They begin to walk, and Mickey isn't gonna lie. It takes some effort, but he muscles through it. 

"Damn, babe, you been working out?" Ian huffs with a laugh in Mickey's ear. 

"Shut up, and don't move around too much," Mickey grins. He's grateful the park is nothing but old ladies and their little dogs at this time in the morning. They pass one particular old lady on a bench who tells Mickey how sweet his is for helping out a "friend." When she's out of earshot, Ian giggles. His whole body is shaking, and belly laughs threaten to erupt from him. Yeah, this asshole is laughing. 

"Fucker, do you want me to drop you?"

"Sorry," Ian giggles into Mickey's shoulder. "It's just the imagery and all, y'know, it's so nice of you to help a friend."

Mickey shakes his head with a small smile adorning his face. Ian was his friend. 

* * *

 

When they arrive home, Mickey helps Ian hobble up the front steps and through the front door. He dumps Ian on the couch, and leaves quickly to get him an ice pack and some pain meds. Mickey knew this meant that their running plans would be put on hold for a little while. He would be relieved that he doesn't have to go running again anytime soon seeing as Ian was put out of commission, but he also knows better. He knows he's going to be waiting on Ian, hand and foot, all weekend. Eh, whatever, at least he doesn't have to get up at six thirty in the fucking morning which is infinitely worse. 


	4. Bruised Elbows

Freckled fingers tangle with tattooed ones on top of the kitchen counter. Ian's breath shudders as he fucks into his boyfriend steadily, working to establish a rhythm.

 _Fuck_ , he thinks. He's missed this so much.

Two weeks.

Two goddamn weeks of conflicting schedules with Ian working at the gym during the day and Mickey working the garage at night. Two goddamn weeks of Mickey coming home at night too exhausted to fuck, and Ian having to go into work soon after waking in the morning leaving no time for morning sex. Two goddamn weeks since he's been inside Mickey. Since he dug his fingers into Mickey's muscled hips, just how he likes it.

They gotta do what they gotta do to keep afloat, but at what cost? 

 

* * *

 

When Ian gets home, Mickey calls for him in the kitchen. Says, "since you're home, you can help me with something," and Ian groans at the thought of being handed a chore as soon as he walks in the door. Upon entering the kitchen, he drops his things on the floor and nearly drops his jaw along with it.  

"Mickey?"

"I got dinner in the oven," Mickey says, turning to face him and all Ian can focus on is Mickey's dick resting flaccid against his thigh. 

"I-I thought you had work?" Ian stammers, and licks his bottom lip on impulse. 

"Didn't have to go into work today," Mickey answers, turning back around to reveal his perfectly round perfectly naked ass. He grabs a red apron hanging off a hook on the kitchen wall, and slips it on over his head. Tying it around his waist so that the red apron strings cascade down his lower back, he smirks devilishly. Ian stares entranced for a moment until he snaps out of it when Mickey turns back around, crossing his arms in front of him. "The roof is all fucked up. They're getting it fixed today."

Ian simply nods open-mouthed, heat slowly building in his groin. He stares at Mickey's hips, imagining how in a moment he was going to grip those hips tightly and bend Mickey over. He crosses the space in between them and unbuckles his belt in the process. When his lips finally meet Mickey's, he sighs into it like it's a drink of water in a parched desert. Mickey lets Ian's tongue explore his open mouth, capturing it gently between his pink lips before letting go just so he can dive in for more. 

The blood in their bodies rushes south quick and soon Mickey is pitching a tent against the red fabric. He rubs against Ian's leg, and sighs happily letting out pretty moans. Ian slides his bony fingers down Mickey's spine to his ass, and finds Mickey's hole. He presses against it gently and he finds it already slick with lube, his finger slipping in easily.

"I'm already ready to go tough guy," Mickey whispers sinfully in Ian's ear as he continues to grind against him.     

It's all the motivation Ian needs to spin him around and fuck him. True to his fantasy, he bends Mickey over roughly and it's all Mickey had been fantasizing about the past couple weeks. Thinking about it got him so hot. He even had to rub one out in the dingy bathroom at work a few days ago, coming hard all over work pants that he spent five minutes furiously scrubbing at in the sink. Nothing compares to the real thing though. The initial burn of Ian's length has him whining pathetically, but Ian wastes no time picking up the pace leaving Mickey no time to recover. Mickey's elbows bang against the edge of the counter and his knees knock into the cabinets below as he struggles to catch his breath in between thrusts. His head nearly rams into the cabinets hanging above him, but Ian grips Mickey's neck and lowers his head just enough to miss it.

Mickey doesn't think about the inevitable bruises he'll have, not when he feels so full and Ian is giving it to him hard. Ian slips the hand from his neck, and brings it under the red apron to wrap his fingers around Mickey's dick. Mickey collapses against the counter, resting his sweaty head against the cool surface as Ian jerks him off. Ian's other hand is hard at work pulling Mickey back onto his dick with each push inside of him. Ian wants to pinch himself, because how the fuck did Mickey know? He's pretty sure he's dreamt about this shit. It was all so fucking domestic. The kitchen, the apron - that kind of shit really got him off.

When he's close, Ian rubs his hands over Mickey's stomach, eventually wrapping his arms around Mickey and pulling him in tight for a few more thrusts before he's painting his insides in cum. He jerks Mickey fast until he's coming too, staining the apron, and collapsing on top of Mickey. Mickey rests his body underneath him, trying to catch his breath and wincing as Ian tries to pull out carefully. Just as Ian begins to kiss down his spine, the oven dings.     

"Shit," Mickey groans out, thoroughly fucked, "I gotta get that." 

 

* * *

 

On top of that, dinner is actually pretty great. Mickey doesn't cook much at all, but when he does, whatever he makes is really fucking good - at least to Ian.

"It's just a roast, you don't gotta keep making that face," Mickey sighs as he uses his fork to poke at the vegetables on his plate.

"What face?" Ian feigns ignorance, and takes another bite. His eyes practically roll into the back of his head in pleasure. Mickey shakes his head.

"The one where you look like you belong in The Exorcist."

"...but it's so good, Mickey. You should do this more often," Ian eyes Mickey up in down, and bites into another piece of food. Mickey hadn't changed out of his apron since their earlier romp in the kitchen, and he looked fucked out and beautiful at the table. Mickey pretends not to notice his wandering eyes.

"It's not a big deal. Any moron can read a recipe..." Mickey places his elbows on the wooden table and winces slightly at the contact.

"No, this is talent..." Ian says, motioning to his plate with his fork. "You don't get to downplay your skills. Not around me... and that uh - that appetizer was something else."

Mickey grins with the now-stained red apron still tied around his waist. He may have been daydreaming about fucking for two weeks, but he's been wanting to do this - apron and all - for months, ever since he woke up to Ian mumbling about it in his sleep. With work and everything, he just didn't have the time until now. Thank fuck for leaky roofs. 

"I didn't buy any dessert though. If you want, I can go get -"

"Nah, don't worry about it," Ian says, cleaning off his plate. "I got that part covered." 

 

* * *

 

Ian lays Mickey down onto the bed, and he thinks that he likes it best when he has Mickey like this. When he has Mickey on his back, he's quiet and vulnerable and more importantly, he can't hide anything from Ian. Ian always thought he was beautiful like this, well all the time, but especially like this - even when they were young. Mickey's usually hardened expression was replaced with a more soft and candid one, his eyes honest and mouth open in anticipation. There was nothing Mickey could hope to fake laid out in front of him.  

It doesn't scare Mickey though, at least not like it used to. After a long time with Ian, he's started to find comfort in it. It feels good and safe and comfortable beneath Ian's warm body, as Ian bends down to lick and suck at Mickey's neck affectionately, marking him and making him his over and over and over again. In bed like this is when Mickey feels bravest, letting himself open physically and emotionally. Don't get him wrong, most of the time he loves it rough and long and hard and he can't let Ian think he's grown too soft. Still, nothing compares to how content he feels in these more quiet and subdued moments.   

Mickey moves to prop himself up more on his elbows to give Ian easier access to his neck, but winces again only this time with a short hiss that he tries to bite back. Ian pushes him gently back down onto the mattress and lifts Mickey's arms to inspect his elbows.  

"Remind me to bend you over the couch next time, instead," Ian tsks, shaking his head as he notices the bruising on each knobby elbow.

"It's fine."

"No, seriously Mick," Ian fixes him with a serious expression. "Your boss is going to think I'm beating the crap outta you."

Mickey shakes his head, "Nah, I got like a shit ton of bruises working on this one car," He shrugs, "It's more awkward explaining the hickeys."

"Does he actually ask about 'em?" Ian asks incredulously. With the stories he hears about the guy, he shouldn't be so surprised.

"No, but you know how fucking annoying he is, always shoving his nose into everybody's business just to take the piss outta them in front of the whole crew," Mickey says. "If he asks, what am I supposed to say?"

"Well..." Ian begins, but he's cut off by Mickey's ranting. Once Mickey starts up, he can't stop. 

"That my hu - ha, ha, ha - uh... my boyfriend is like a fucking leach?" Mickey stumbles over his words. _Fuck. He didn't just. Fuck. Maybe he won't notice_.

 "What was that?" Ian eyed him curiously, eyebrow raised. It's too late to cover it up. Mickey's face to face with his man, and his cheeks flush bright red giving everything away. 

"What? It's nothing... I just said -"

"No, I heard what you _said_ , but what were you _going to say_?" Ian teases, finger digging into Mickey's ribs. 

"Nothing, I just..." Mickey sinks further into the bed and smothers himself with his pillow. "Mmmfm mmhusmbmd leamme almooome!"

"I'm sorry babe, I can't hear you," Ian's hands move dangerously up his sides, inching closer to Mickey's weak spot. His fingers brush over it and Mickey squirms but holds steady to the pillow over his face. "C'mon, Mick."

"Iammmnn!"

"You know? I could have sworn I heard..."

"It was a slip of the tongue, okay?" Mickey huffs exasperatedly, throwing his pillow at Ian, "leave me alone!"

"Whatever you say," Ian says, catching the pillow in his arms. He leans over Mickey to turn out the light and then lays right down beside him, pulling Mickey in real close so he lays flush against his chest. Mickey reluctantly lets him in, and Ian breathes into Mickey's ear, " _...husband_."

 


	5. Stuffy Sinuses

Mickey hits the lights and locks up the garage, as his boss heads out ahead of him to the parking lot. He sighed with relief. The weekend was finally here. It's dark and windy, but the snow hasn't piled up too high yet. Mostly slush that doesn't go past the ankle of his boot, caking the grips on the bottom which he kicks off against the rim of his car before climbing in. 

He's so ready to get home and pass out on the couch, but he has a place he's got to go first. 

A few green lights past the garage on the dark slick roads, Mickey pulls into a supermarket parking lot. The neon sign twitches above, and white light pours onto the sidewalk from the inside. He takes out his wallet, making his way to the door, and counts the bills inside. Pleased, he pockets the wallet and walks through the squeaky automated doors that almost didn't open in time. His hands are still a bit greasy, and he washes them off in the bathroom. A few grease marks dot his face, and he rubs at them tiredly. When he's satisfied, he grabs a basket from the stack right outside the bathroom door and makes his way over to the pharmacy section. 

The basket hangs loosely in Mickey's grip, as Mickey periodically drops an item into it after scanning shelf after shelf. He picks up a bottle of decongestant, reading the label warnings carefully before dropping it into the basket with all the other items. He counts up the items underneath his breath, and digs the wallet out of his back pocket to count the bills again. He lets out a breath he didn't know he was holding when he closes up his wallet once again. He's not really sure why he's so paranoid. Maybe it's because he's not used to it, remembering when he never used to carry a wallet and how he used to favor five finger discounts. Used to.

Now he was a tax paying, home-owning, honest working man. Fuck.

Mickey places the items onto the conveyor belt at the check out in an almost robotic fashion, likely due to the sheer exhaustion he felt. The cashier looks him up and down, and he almost doesn't notice. He glances awkwardly at his messy work clothes, and picks at the dirt that sits still underneath his fingernails in a manner that only draws more attention to the tattoos on his knuckles. Usually he'd say something biting to go along with the subtle message, but not today. He was tired and eager to get home.     

He hands over exact change. The cashier takes it from his hands with some awkward hesitation, as if she was avoiding direct contact. She counts up the money twice right in front of him to make sure it's just right. It is. He knows, because he counted it himself.  

"Okay. Need a receipt?"

"No."

"Have a nice day," She smiles tight-lipped. Mickey nods and grabs the plastic bags, looping them onto one arm as his free hand digs into his jacket pocket for his keys.

 

* * *

 

Mickey lugs his tired body up the porch steps. Once he gets to the front door, he rests his body against it for a few seconds before digging his keys out of his pocket again to open the door. The keys almost slip through his fingers, and he swears under his breath. Damn, that's all he needs. He's about to fit the key into the keyhole, when the door swings open with Ian standing on the other side. 

"Hey," Ian says, stepping aside to let Mickey in. He grabs Mickey by the arm and pulls him in to peck him on the lips. "Where you been?" he asks, walking back to the kitchen to fuss with the broken toaster oven, the dial messed up. Mickey shakes his head. The thing was shot, but Ian was stubbornly determined to fix it in his own way. 

"I just stopped by the store to get a few things," Mickey says raising his arm to show off the plastic bags hanging from his bicep. "Where do you want me to put these?"

Ian doesn't respond, brows furrowing as he moves the dial on the broken toaster oven back and forth. Odd, considering that Mickey is standing just a couple feet away from him. Mickey steps further into the kitchen so he can be heard. "Eh, Ian, I said where do you want me to put these?"

Ian finally looks up from his preoccupation with the toaster oven as Mickey sets the packages on top of the counter, having give up on getting an answer out of Ian. 

"Oh, uh... sorry. My ears are a liddle clogged," Ian says comically, his nose obviously a little clogged as well. He flexes his jaw to relieve the pressure in his ears, and begins to pull out some of the items in the bags Mickey brought home. He hands a box of ice pops to Mickey. "Put dese in the freezer." 

Mickey promptly opens the freezer door, and places the ice pops on the small shelf inside the door. Knowing Ian, he'll probably take one out later and bury the box behind all their frozen dinners making it a pain in the ass to dig through. Mickey takes out one grape ice pop for himself, and strips off the plastic packaging around it before sticking it in his mouth. Ian hands him dish soap and sponges, which Mickey takes while he balances the ice pop between his lips.

"...and dose go under the sink," Ian instructs and Mickey nods, opening up the cabinets to place the items underneath the kitchen sink. A small smile threatens to break out on Mickey's face, and the ice pop nearly falls out of his mouth as he does so. Some of the juice runs down his chins and he catches it with his hand. He sucks up the juice running down the side of the ice pop while Ian sniffles. Placing the ice pop back between his lips, Mickey pulls one of the plastic bags on the counter towards himself and starts to pull out more items. He lines them up right in front of Ian.

Saline nasal spray. Sinus congestion spray. Liquid decongestant. Two boxes of tissues, and a movie - paranormal activity 3. Ian was kind of addicted to these fake documentary self-filmed type of shit. 

"Mickey..."

"Here," Mickey hands Ian the medications. "Take these upstairs. Let me set up down here."

Ian nods and mouths a "thank you" before climbing up the steps. He bumps Mickey's arm affectionately as he passes. With Ian upstairs, Mickey gets to work grabbing some extra blankets from the hallway closet and extra pillows too. The sofa unfolds into a bed, and Mickey locks it into place. He tosses the blankets and pillows onto the sofa bed, then strips down to his boxers and his tank top, waiting for Ian to come back down.

The dvd is already popped into the television, and the remote is in Mickey's hands ready to hit play when Ian sniffles his way down the stairs. "That feels so much better."

"Good," Mickey smiles and pats the empty space beside him. Ian gets a couple water bottles from the fridge and then settles himself on the sofa bed, relaxing into the cushions. He lets out a sigh of relief, cuddling up to the warmth of Mickey's body. 

"You ready for this?"

"Yeah, man. Press play," Ian says, running his hand down Mickey's chest. Mickey gets up quickly to turn off all the lights and then lays back down next to Ian. They're a good few inches apart when the movie starts, but as it plays out, Mickey inches closer and closer to Ian's side until his body is nice and warm against Ian's ribs. Ian wants to tease Mickey as his body tenses up along with the building tension on screen, but it would ruin the mood. Instead, Ian sniffles and clears his throat as he strokes Mickey's hair. By the time the movie is over, Mickey is asleep; his chest slowly rising and falling with an arm slung over Ian's waist.

Ian digs the remote out from under Mickey's thigh, and turns off the television. He kisses Mickey's forehead and closes his eyes.  


	6. Headaches

Ian spots Mickey's car in the driveway. It's strange because Mickey usually doesn't get out of work until 8pm, and it was 5pm now. You wouldn't know it though. Around this time of the day, during this time of the year, everything was pitch black by four o'clock. Ian rubs his hands together in the cold, generating some warmth between them. He reaches into his pocket to fish out his keys, with one hand hovering over the doorknob. 

Perhaps, Mickey was planning something? He's been really, well, sweet lately - in his own way. It's not the typical "how was your day honey?" kind of sweet, but that was okay. Ian didn't need that cliché shit in his life. Besides, Mickey just knows. He can make him feel so good on the worst day. He can read him like a book sometimes, and Ian sinks into an overwhelming sense of insecurity and inadequacy again. Like he's missing something vital about Mickey. 

 _Do I know him like he knows me?_ The thoughts start popping up one after the other. _Can I give him what he needs? Is he happy? With me?_

His breath fogs in front of him, and he barely notices the chill in his fingers, there still hovering over the doorknob. _Do I know enough to make him happy?_

_Am I smothering him? There was that one time. That other time. Is it wrong to want for him, for the both of us?_

Before his innermost thoughts could consume him, Ian's hand circles around the doorknob and he pushes the door open. The move alone makes the thoughts shatter and disappear into tiny fragments in his mind, like taking a hammer to glass. The first thing he notices when he steps inside is that it's just as pitch black as it is outside. For a moment, it feels unreal. He decides to speak, in order to test it. 

"Uh... hello?" Ian mutters with a shaky breath. "Mickey?"

He searches in the dark for the light switch on the wall and flicks it on once his fingers reach it, eliciting a whimper from the couch that he almost misses. 

 

* * *

 

Mickey Milkovich is not known to whimper. 

He shouts and curses when he's mad. He throws whatever pain inducing device that has caused him to suffer from his sight, but he does not whimper. 

Ian steps around the couch cautiously and Mickey turns his head to greet him, immediately regretting it as a sharp pain shoots up his neck to thrum relentless in his temples. The moan he emits is barely audible, but it's there. Ian takes in the scene before him. There are pillows stacked all around Mickey supporting his neck, and a half-empty glass of water on the coffee table. Setting his things down as softly as he can beside the glass, Ian drops to his knees to crouch beside Mickey's supine figure on the couch.

Mickey blinks at him, as if to communicate a "welcome home." 

"Headaches?" Ian whispers.

Mickey blinks at him again and Ian takes that as a yes. There's no witty remark or swearing, not even a head nod. Ian sighs, it must be bad. He reaches out to smooth his hand over Mickey's aching temples as gently as he can manage. His other hand slips under Mickey's white t-shirt and strokes his warm skin there. A shuddering sigh escapes Mickey's slightly parted lips and he closes his eyes. He can't think too much without the pain overwhelming him, but he can feel Ian's touch. Ian's good at talking with his hands. 

"Rest, I'll make dinner tonight," Ian whispers to him again, and he barely registers it as his eyes close. 

 

* * *

 

When Mickey's eyes flutter open again, he's not sure exactly of how much time has passed. The lights are off again, but there's a soft glow coming from the kitchen and he can see Ian's silhouette approaching him. The ache in his neck has dulled and his temples aren't throbbing nearly as much as they did before. However, he sits up a little too quick thinking he could handle it, and he feels a bit like a tipped over hourglass. 

"Easy there," Ian says. He places two bowls out in front of them. The smell of chicken broth fills the room, which wakes Mickey up a bit more. The wave of dizziness leaves him, and he's able to sit up properly. He grabs a bowl and spoons some of the hot liquid into his mouth. 

"I don't know what works best for headaches," Ian says, still in a whisper. He stirs his spoon in his bowl, playing with the vegetables awkwardly. "I figured it's cold out, so hey, why not give it a shot? I can make something else if - "

"s'good. feels really good." Mickey brings the bowl to his lips, and sips some more of the broth. They sit in silence, slurping up the soup. It's been cooked down just right; the chicken is tender and the vegetables are soft in his mouth. It doesn't require Mickey to move his jaw much, which he's grateful for. The warmth soothes his neck just fine. 

 "Yeah, this here is what I needed." Mickey looks at Ian earnestly as he leans up against the couch cushions. It makes Ian's heart flutter, threatening to take flight. Oh, sweet validation in the quiet moments with his Mickey. Another moment of silence passes between them, but it's a comfortable silence. Ian doesn't feel like he has to say or do anything and the darkness prompts them to be still. For once, his mind is still and quiet as well. 

"Soup was an added bonus," Mickey mutters under his breath, leaning against Ian's shoulder and falling back asleep. He yawns, and grins stupidly. "Love you, asshole." 

That's all it takes to make Ian's heart take off, soaring off to god knows where. Ian sits there quietly, watching the rise and fall of Mickey's chest. It's in there. That's where he is, and Mickey lets him know that he belongs there. That's all he really needs to know. 


	7. Bug Bites

"One, two, three, and... four!"

Mickey counts the raised red bumps as he washes Ian's back. They're a month into spring, and Ian is already being eaten alive. It's all very fascinating, Mickey thinks as he continues to count the bumps. Ian shakes his hair out underneath the spray of the shower-head and runs his hands through to remove the sudsy shampoo.  

"I don't understand how you're not covered in red marks," Ian groans. He reaches over his shoulder to scratch the skin there. Mickey takes note and bats his hand away to scrub furiously at the patch of skin which turns strawberry red as he does so.  

"I **_am_ ** covered in red marks," Mickey grins, "... you fucking parasite!"

"I mean - here, turn around," Ian spins Mickey around so that he's standing directly underneath the spray. Ian squeezes some shampoo onto his hands and rubs them together before massaging it into Mickey's hair. It's some organic shit that smells like mint. Mickey would make a big deal over how much Ian spends on hair products like this, but it smells so fucking intoxicatingly good. Like, what's the point in saving water by showering together if you're gonna spend twelve dollars on a dinky bottle. Oh, but a little goes a long way! Ian says. Yeah, yeah, they've had that argument before.

What the fuck ever.  

Mickey leans his head back further underneath the spray of the water, instantly relaxed from the fresh scent and Ian's fingers working magic on his scalp. It doesn't last long as Ian's frustration interrupts the peaceful moment.

"I mean, why the hell am I a target, and you're not?" Ian says, continuing to massage Mickey's scalp. 

"I don't fucking know, man? Maybe they like orange juice," Mickey snorts. Just for that Ian slaps his ass, eliciting a yelp from Mickey. "That's my sensitive cheek, dickhead!"

Ian rolls his eyes. It's been years, but he still pulls that excuse.

"Oh, I'm sorry! Should I go on the other one?" Ian grins and shoves Mickey's head underneath the spray to wash out the shampoo, before proceeding to scrub Mickey's back with a loofah full of soap. 

 

* * *

 

The raised red bumps only seem to multiply over the course of the next few days. 

With every morning run, there seems to be five more that pop up. Ian's arm is just within reach of a bite located towards the middle of his back and he scratches at is absentmindedly while looking at the calendar posted on their refrigerator door. 

“Hey, Mick.”

"Yeah?" Mickey replies from the living room, where he downs the rest of the water from his bottle and strips out of his sweaty running shirt, throwing it carelessly on the couch. 

"You wanna go out to eat next Friday? We both get out early." Ian grabs a pen and eyes the date for next Friday on the calendar. 

"Sure, but I get to pick this time!" Mickey turns on the television and takes a seat on the couch, shirtless still. All of that running has him beat, though he's pretty proud of himself considering he can keep up with Ian now. 

"That's fine." 

With the pen, Ian marks the date and then scratches at another hard to reach spot between his shoulder blades. Mickey eyes him from the couch, shaking his head. 

 

* * *

 

"What's the matter? The burger too done or something?" Mickey sips at his soda lazily, and plays with the straw in between his lips. Ian leans his back against the booth trying to subtly rub against it like a bear against a tree. He hasn't touched his food yet. 

"No, no." Ian groans. "It's just, kinda itchy right now?"

"Still? Goddamn, you're like a magnet for those suckers." Mickey steals a french fry off of Ian's plate, but Ian doesn't swat his hand away like he usually does. Not when his skin feels like tiny minions of Satan have taken up residence right underneath the surface, poking their little bifurcated tails into his pores over and over again. He does go for Mickey's glass though, stealing an ice cube right out of it while Mickey motions a 'what gives' with his hands. Rolling up his sleeve, he rubs the ice cube over a cluster of bites on his elbow. 

"Ah," Ian sighs, closing his eyes for a moment in relief, "Say what you will about big ass bites, it's those tiny clusters of 'em that itch the worst."

Mickey shakes his head, sipping up the rest of his soda. 

 

* * *

 

Ian tosses and turns in bed, arching his back ever so often to scratch at an itch so hard and fast, he wonders if he'll break the skin. Mickey is sleeping soundly beside him, hugging a pillow to his chest. Ian stares at his peaceful form, while he prays to whatever god out there that he can get some relief. After a moment, he sits up to crawl over to the fan sitting on top of the chest at the end of their bed with an exasperated huff. He turns the dial to high and plants himself right in front of it cross-legged, back facing the swift spinning blades. 

A frown settles on his face as the cool air hits his back. Fuck maintaining the ecological balance, Ian wants every mosquito on Earth to die. He grabs a pillow, and holds it tightly to his chest just like Mickey. He watches Mickey sleep, grumpily. How dare he escape the mosquito scourge? The man passed out in front of him scratches his belly and turns over, shoving his face into his pillows. Ian does the same, shoving his face into his own pillow and wills himself to fall asleep.

 

* * *

 

"Son of a fucking -" Ian yells, beyond frustrated as he twists and turns. He can no longer reach the clusters of mosquito bites dotting his back even with his long arms. Mickey watches him for a bit, a little amused by his dance of frustration. Then he lifts himself off the couch to come behind Ian to scratch his back.  

"Oh my god, thank you," Ian groans dramatically.

"Yeah, you like that?" Mickey teases. 

"Yeah," Ian nods, his eyes crossing in ecstasy. He frowns when Mickey begins to pull his hand away, before leaving the room altogether. "No, wait! Where are you - ?" 

"Relax," Mickey says, coming out of the bathroom with a bottle of cream in his hand. He grips Ian's arm and pulls him over to the couch. "Lay down."

Ian promptly does as he says, laying on his stomach. Setting the bottle on the coffee table, Mickey lifts Ian's shirt to expose the bites along his back. He straddles Ian's waist, legs bracing Ian's sides, and picks the bottle back up to squeeze some of the cream onto his hands. His fingers get to work, massaging the cream into Ian's skin. They start from the middle of his back, and move outwards in soothing arcs. The sounds Ian emits in response are almost sinful, which has Mickey grinning from ear to ear above him.

"I cannot tell you how amazing this feels right now," Ian says, voice slightly muffled by the couch cushions. 

"Feel good?" Mickey asks, pressing his thumbs in between his shoulder blades before rubbing hard into the meat of his upper back. 

"Mmm, oh yeah," Ian whimpers in reply, "don't stop, Mick." 

When Mickey finishes, Ian shifts his body enough to flip them so that Mickey lays beneath him. He kisses his lips slow and deep, licking and nipping at his plump bottom lip. Mickey responds by opening his mouth just enough so that Ian can slip his tongue in a bit more. All thoughts of the incessant itching are gone. He breathes a "thank you" into Mickey's mouth, over and over. 

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. 

"You're welcome," Mickey says not with actual words, but with faint sighs and soft lips and tongue and hands. Hands cupping Ian's face, and body pressing up against him eager for more. 


	8. Back Aches

"Larry doesn't know what the fuck he's talking about," Mickey says in a disgruntled tone. He rotates his shoulders and leans back in his chair, trying to work out the kinks in his back. "Guy can hardly change a fucking tire, don't know why the fuck boss hired him."

Ian snakes his arm across the back of Mickey's chair and plays with his collar. He sips his beer, watching Mickey's face closely. Every time Mickey rants about someone at work, Ian sort of zones out if he's being honest with himself. Not that Mickey really cares, anyways. He just needs someone to rant to, and Ian is more than happy to oblige as it gives him the perfect opportunity to take in how beautiful his boyfriend is. Those full lips. Long eye lashes. Deep blue eyes. It sounds cheesy, but he could stare at them forever. 

"That fucking moron closed the fucking hood on me!" Mickey shoves a couple of ketchup coated fries into his mouth all at once, chewing furiously. "Doesn't help that my back is already killing me, now I got a massive fucking bruise right here." Mickey twists his body, trying his best to point to the middle of his back. 

Ian blinks out of his daydreaming, furrowing his eyebrows for a moment to inspect Mickey's back. He hisses an "ouch" in sympathy, as he lifts the back of Mickey's shirt to see the purple-blue bruise forming there. With his free hand, he rubs Mickey's shoulder. "Here, let me..."

Mickey relaxes his shoulders and welcomes the touch. Ian kneads the knot and rubs gentle circles into Mickey's back, careful to avoid the bruise in the middle. 

"Oh yeah, that feels good. Might have to ask Phil to hire you on as my personal masseur. Give me massages all day!" 

"Oh, since when did you pick up French?" Ian teases, pinching Mickey's cheek. 

"Shut up," Mickey says, backhanding Ian's chest. "We do get the travel channel, ya know." 

"Ah, of course," Ian smirks, digging his fingers back into Mickey's tense muscles. "So, you want me to take care of you all day?"

Ian teases him some more, poking into his ribs -- a weak spot. Mickey squirms in his seat. 

 

"S-stop. Stop!" He laughs and bats Ian's hands away from his sides. Ian relents to kiss his cheek and ruffle the back of his head. Mickey can hardly keep a straight face to answer Ian's questions "But yeah, man..."

"Mick, I don't think they're gonna pay me to take care of your ass all day."

Mickey's about to reply with his famed wit, when the waitress interrupts him. "How we doing over here? Can I get you anything else?"

"Nah, we're good," Mickey says, a laugh still stuck there in his throat. The waitress nods an "okay" and readies to walk away.

"Hey, can we get the check though?" Ian stops her. "I think we're just about done."

“Of course!”

 

* * *

 

The waitress comes back with the check, placing it in the middle of the table. Ian and Mickey's hands fly out in an attempt to grab it first, and the waitress chuckles. 

"I'm payin' for it," Mickey insists. 

"No, no, no, -- you got it last week," Ian tries to pry Mickey's fingers off the bill. "Hand it over, I got it!"

"Not to insert myself here, I'm more of a neutral party," the waitress adds, before their argument can turn into a tug of war "-- but it's true. You did pay last time, if I recall correctly." They both turn to look at her, eyebrows raised.  

 

"I-I'm sorry. You guys just have such a memorable presence. I see y'all around here all the time," she stammers, a bit embarrassed for opening her mouth. 

"Really," Ian tugs the bill from Mickey's grip while he's distracted, and slips his card into the black bill folder, "You hear that Mickey? We're memorable."

Before Mickey can stop Ian, he hands over the bill to the waitress and she pockets it in her apron. 

"Bastard" is all Mickey says, lifting his glass to his lips to take another sip of his beer. 

"Forgive him, he came out of the womb grumpy." Ian squeezes Mickey's shoulder lovingly and Mickey rolls his eyes, placing his beer back on the table with a loud clink.

 

"You guys are just too cute. How long have you been together?" The waitress inquires. Her smile is too big, stretching from ear to ear. Mickey is a bit off-put by her forwardness, but Ian looks at her charmingly. "Since we were teenagers. We're in our mid-twenties now."

"Wow, so it's been a while then? No wonder." She shakes her head. "You're just like an old married couple!"

"Yeah, well, not married yet," Ian smiles and nudges Mickey's shoulder. "Though this one already seems to think we are, ain't that right _husband?_ "

Mickey groans and rolls his eyes. It was one time. A slip of the tongue. Let it go man, just let it the fuck go.  

"Well, I'll go take care of this for you guys," she nods. "Then I hope y'all have a good night, and maybe a good rest of your lives together." The waitress winks at Mickey, before walking off with the bill.

"Thanks," Ian nods back. Mickey smiles back tight-lipped before letting it fall once her back turns.  

 

 

* * *

 

"The fuck do you gotta do that to me all the time, man?" Mickey climbs into the passenger seat, feeling too beat up to drive back home. 

"Do what, Mick?" Ian stops himself from putting the keys in the ignition. "What did I do this time?"

Mickey puts his feet on the dash and rests his hands on his knees. He looks out the window, avoiding eye contact with Ian. "You know, like..." 

"I know...?" Ian waits for him to continue, confusion written all over his face. Mickey struggles to find the words, his nervous tick coming back full force. He bites his lower lip and thumbs the corner of his mouth. Ian grows impatient. "Like what, Mickey?"

"Hold on, let me just fucking -- fuck!" Mickey snaps, and then holds his breath for count of five. He exhales in a shaky huff. "Why do you gotta bring that shit up all the time -- shit man, I don't know."

 

 

"What shit, Mickey?" Ian lets out a nervous laugh. "What bothers you, Mick? The fact that we've been together for a long ass time?"

"No, I mean..." Mickey picks the dirt out from under his nails, before biting into them. Fuck, not that. He knows how long they've been together. It's weird when he thinks about it but it doesn't bother him as much. "I mean, when I said... that... that thing."

 

“Oh.”

"It was an accident, ya know." Mickey thinks about how he said the word -- "husband," and how it didn't sound so bad in his head. He could definitely get used to it. It scared the shit out of him how much he wanted that. 

"Mickey," Ian starts the car and begins backing out of the parking space. "I'm just joking with you. There's no need to take it so seriously."

"Well I'm not!" Mickey shouts, unable to stop himself. "I'm not fucking... joking, or whatever."

It's too late to take it back. It's out there, and the car screeches to a halt as they near the red stop sign at the parking lot exit.

"Woah, what are you saying?!"

"I'm not joking with you, Ian," Mickey mumbles, defeated. "We've been doing this shit for a long time, and it's not funny to me, alright? It's a lot" 

 

“Mickey…” Ian scans Mickey's body. His shoulders are just as tense as they were before, Mickey curling in on himself in his seat. He still wont look at Ian. 

“Let’s just go home,” Mickey sighs.

 

* * *

 

Mickey's back faces Ian on the bed, and Ian trails his hands up and down his spine. His left hand hovers just above the bruise before making contact again with his lower back. It slips into Mickey's pants, to stroke his hip soothingly. 

"We could have that, Mick," Ian says barely above a whisper. Mickey's skin is scarred but soft underneath his palm. He doesn't move when Ian touches him or talks to him. Ian leans in, hovering just above Mickey's ear and moving his body closer against Mickey's body. "We could, if you wanted that."

Mickey is silent still, as if pretending to sleep. His body betrays him, unable to relax when Ian's words ghost over his shoulder before reaching his ear. 

"It doesn't have to be right now, but I would want that," Ian says carefully, "I would want that with you. Okay?" 

 

Ian kisses Mickey's shoulder, and draws Mickey in closer with his arms around Mickey's middle. After a moment, Mickey finally speaks.

“Okay.”


	9. Chest Colds

Ian’s body violently shakes as a series of coughs rip through him, but he tries to muffle it with his pillow. Attempting to keep himself still only makes it worse. A couple weeks have passed with no relief.

When Ian feels like shit, Mickey feels like shit. Ian thinks it’s because he’s keeping him awake every night. In between coughing fits, he mutters apologies profusely until the next one hits. Mickey tells him to stop. Stop apologizing, not coughing, but as Ian loses his battle to another fit the message doesn’t go quite through and he keeps apologizing. The fact of the matter is that Mickey is worried as Ian trembles and strains to take a breath in between coughs beside him.

Ian feels Mickey leave his side, and he half expects him to grab a pillow and head for the couch downstairs. He doesn’t. He makes his way to the bathroom, and for someone so loud he does this so quietly. A light illuminates the bedroom, and Ian feels Mickey’s presence once again. Stroking his arm, he whispers into his ear. The tiredness is evident in his voice, but he’s calm.

“Let’s get you in the shower.” His hand curls around his bicep squeezing it lightly. “Steam might help you breathe a bit better.”

Not much has worked so far, but he needs to sleep and he’s willing to try anything. Ian nods, coughing in the process. He rolls to Mickey’s side of the bed, and the older man helps keep him steady as he plants his feet on the floor. He’s not particularly dizzy or dazed, but the violent eruptions from his chest have him rocking back and forth unexpectedly.

.

Once in the bathroom, Mickey has him sit on the toilet as he gets the water started. Turning the nob allowing the spray of warm water to flow, he tests the temperature with his hand. Satisfied, he sits to the miserable redhead who is staring at nothing in particular from his seat. Shirtless already, Mickey assists him in removing his sweats, then strips himself down.

They don’t stand directly under the water spray, as the object isn’t really to get clean but to breathe. Ian is pretty sure he can stand on his own but Mickey stands beside him holding him by the waist. The sharp rise of Mickey’s chest against his back prompts him to take a deep breath. The steam fills his sinuses and caresses his lungs, giving him some momentary relief. As Mickey exhales steadily, so does he.

“There you go.”

He can hear the smile in Mickey’s quiet voice. He takes another breath and closes his eyes, leaning against Mickey’s chest and mimicking the rise and fall there. Mickey’s hands rest just above his hip bones, and he can feel his thumbs brush over them as Mickey presses kisses along his back. The kisses are firm as if it would penetrate his skin and heal his aching lungs.   

.

The coughing has died down a lot, as Ian settles back into bed. Mickey crawls over him to open the window a half inch. The cool autumn air sneaks into the room and it feels real good, fresh and not too cold. It doesn’t suffocate them. Mickey, small and drowning in Ian’s clothes, curls around him and pulls his back right up against his chest. Whoever the hell said the little spoon couldn’t be a comfortable resting place for the big one needs to get their shit together.  

Mickey’s arms are placed low on Ian’s hips to give him room for his chest to expand. He makes a conscious effort to take deep breaths and release the air held in his lungs in a steady stream that warms Ian’s back. As his chest rises, so does Ian’s as if they’re conjoined. As his falls, so does Ian’s.

The coughing stops and soon they’re both asleep.

.

“You didn’t have to take the day off.” Ian runs a hand through his hair as they wait. “I could have gone by himself.”

“Yeah, yeah. Shut up.” Mickey says. He takes the clipboard out of his hand. “No one can read your handwriting, that’s why I’m here.”

“Uh-huh. Okay.” Ian rolls his eyes, and rests his head on his hand as he supports his arm on one knee. Going to urgent care on a Monday morning was better than any other day. If they’d gone on the weekend, they’d be there for hours likely sitting between a screaming baby and a man with a nail stuck in his foot. _Nightmare_.

“No but, seriously…isn’t Phil going to get all bitchy if you keep taking days off for shit like this?” Ian inquires, mildly serious.

“ _Shit like this_ , he says – you kidding me?” Mickey snaps out. “I’m the best that a-hole’s got.”

“Well, someone is very confident!”

“As a heart attack, man.” Mickey says with that same air of confidence. Ian thinks for a moment. “I’m not sure that’s how the phrase goes.”

.

The wait in the waiting room isn’t so bad, but once they’re ushered to a tiny room and Ian’s vitals are checked over, they’re stuck waiting for half an hour. There’s a small television on the wall playing reruns of Law and Order: SVU, and Ian swings his feet back and forth on the examination table as Mickey tunes in.

Their doctor comes in and asks Ian a series of questions. They’re right to the point, and both of them couldn’t be happier. Neither of them are in the mood to wait much longer. Things like…

_“How long have you been coughing?”_

“Three weeks.” Ian says.

“Three weeks, and three days.” Mickey corrects.

_“Have you been able to sleep?”_

“Off and on.” Ian says.

“Not nearly enough.” Mickey adds. “He barely sleeps.”

When she’s done with her inquiry, the doctor tells them he has bronchitis and they’re going to give him a couple kinds of meds – an inhaler and a corticosteroid in pill form. She instructs that a nurse will come around and give him a breathing treatment before they leave.

.

“C’mon, you can suck harder and longer than that” Mickey mocks. Ian glares at him as he holds the breathing device up to his mouth. It helps deliver medicine to his lungs. The nurse tells him he needs to hold it there until the machine beeps. It hasn’t beeped yet, and he’s getting tired of it.

“Fuck it.” he says, as he throws the inhaler onto the examination table and spit drips down his chin. I’m done.

“There’s like a tiny bit left in there.” And there is just a small amount left still in the tube.

“No, I’m done. Never again.” Ian huffs in frustration. He hacks up a ton of mucus and grabs a paper towel to spit it out into. “God, that’s so gross.”

“Yeah, pretty sure you just coughed up a shot’s worth of phlegm.” Mickey looks down at the paper towel, before Ian throws it out. “At least that shit worked. You ready to go?”

Ian nods and they check out at the front desk. Before going home, they stop by the pharmacy to pick up their meds. The doctor gives them a couple over the counter options as well, so their bill isn’t too devastating. By next Monday, Ian’s lungs feel brand new.


	10. Allergies

“Fiona invited us over.”

Ian sets the container of brownies on the kitchen table. Debbie made them with her sorority sisters. She’s back at the old Gallagher home for Thanksgiving break, and Ian had stopped over to say ‘hi.’ Fiona complained that she never gets to see him anymore and that they should stop over for Thanksgiving dinner, approaching in a few days. Ian already has it in mind that they’re going, figuring Mickey can stand to interact with his family for one day out of the year. 

“Hmn.” is all Mickey says, picking up a brownie from the container. “Does this shit have raisins in it?”

“Mickey.”

“You know because I fucking hate raisins.”

“ _Mickey_.” Ian’s lips form a thin line on his face. “You can’t avoid my family forever.”

“I don’t have a problem with your family.” Mickey says, inspecting the brownie in his hands. That isn’t true though, and they both know it. Every time they walk in the door for the first time in ages, Fiona pulls Ian into a tight embrace and then Fiona and Mickey do this awkward hand wave thing. Ian’s learned not to expect that to change any time soon. It is what it is right now, and it’s up to the both of them to figure their shit out – It isn’t Ian’s problem.

“I only get to see them all in one place a few times a year now if that, can you just stop being a shit about this and do this for me?” 

“What am I being a shit about?!” Mickey pretends to be offended, but underneath he knows he is being a shit about it. Part of him is still mad about them practically abandoning Ian years ago. Ian doesn’t call it that. Ian calls it giving him time and space, but that’s horseshit to him. You don’t abandon your goddamn family.

“We can go, it’s no big fucking deal, alright?” Satisfied with his inspection, Mickey bites into the brownie as Ian pops around the kitchen to get the ingredients out for dinner. He places a couple onions on the cutting board, and searches for a knife. “I can’t believe how big Liam’s gotten.”

“Hmn.” Mickey responds. He puts the brownie on top of the container and scratches his neck, feeling it tingling just a bit underneath his nails.

“He’s number one on his little league team I hear.” Ian smiles fondly. Mickey takes a deep breath and scratches at his neck a bit more, the skin underneath turning red and splotchy. He feels a tightness in his throat that he can’t quite describe.

“You remember when you took a piss in the middle of a game and-” Ian looks up from looking through the drawers for a knife, to see the bright red circles staining Mickey’s pale skin. They’re spreading along his neck, and down his chest. 

“Mhmn…I’m…” Mickey begins, but he can’t get out the words, being too preoccupied with gulping in air. The air doesn’t seem to go anywhere when he does, cut off from his lungs like a car cutoff from the highway by a fallen tree branch. The breaths become more rapid with panic as he realizes he really can’t breathe at all. He wavers on his feet, feeling nauseous and dizzy.

“ _Shit_.”

.

One thing Ian has always prided himself on is his quick reflexes, but his hands still shake uncontrollably as he searches through the medicine cabinet picking up bottles and quickly reading the labels. He picks up a pink container of Benadryl gel capsules, scanning it. _Itching throat_. He puts it aside. Damn it, where is it. A few bottles go tumbling to the floor before he finds it – the inhaler from when he was sick.  

Taking both medications with him, he rushes out to the kitchen immediately dropping down to his knees beside Mickey who he’d laid on the floor. The more Ian wills his hands to stop shaking, the harder they do. He looks down to the terrified man below him, his eyes wide and watery as he gasps, and lifts his head. Knowing he can’t swallow, he breaks open a capsule and pours the liquid down his throat. Then he shakes up the inhaler before pressing it to Mickey’s lips.

Ian hopes it’s enough to get them to the hospital. Holding his phone in his hands, he hesitates for a moment on whether or not to call 911. Seeing Mickey struggle on the floor, he realizes that Mickey isn’t going to make it. They can’t wait. He scoops the suffocating man into his arms and heads out the door not giving a shit about whether the door is locked.

.

Ian is pretty sure he had violated at least a hundred traffic laws on his way there. The meds slowed down the reaction, but they didn’t stop it altogether and Mickey was losing consciousness. As soon as he drove up to the door, Ian gathered him into his arms again and a couple nurses took notice. One instructs him to place Mickey in a wheelchair and he does.

“Sir, what happened?”

“He can’t breathe.” Ian says, his voice cracking. “He just started turning red and I-I-I’m really freaked the fuck out right now. I’m sorry.”

.

“He’ll be okay.”

Mandy pets Ian’s arm and leans against his shoulder. She brought over a bag of the brownie he had eaten as he requested. Before calling her, they had pulled Ian aside to ask him questions. What’s his family history? What did he eat? When did it start? Did he take anything? Ian answered them as best as he could, with no word yet as to how he was doing.

“Okay.” is all Ian says back to Mandy, biting his nails in anxiety. His knees bounce up and down in his seat. In third grade, a kid from his class died from a bee sting at the park. He couldn’t breathe and he saw the look on his face. He was _so scared_ , as he kicked out his feet and gasped for air.

“He’ll be okay.” He repeats the words in his head over and over, but the image of Mickey struggling on the kitchen floor is burned into his head. Kicking his legs, unable to breathe. It just plays in his head over and over and over again and no matter how hard he tries, he can’t get it to go away. The last time he saw him, his lips were turning blue.  

.

Mickey is conscious as Ian holds his hand in his, thumb stroking over his knuckles. They have him hooked up to an IV. There’s a cannula hooked up to oxygen in his nose. The doctor had come in when he woke up to inform them of what had happened, and what medications he’ll need. There were walnuts in the brownies, and apparently Mickey is allergic. They’re going to keep him overnight for observation.

As soon as the doctor leaves the room, Ian grips the sides of his face and pulls him in to kiss the top of his head. He’s careful not to smother him in his embrace, but he holds him close to his chest.

“Fuck.” He mutters.

His shoulders quake, his lips quiver, and he sniffs hard. Mickey feels wet drops fall onto him and Ian pulls back, eyes red rimmed, to place kiss after kiss after kiss on his forehead. Too tired to speak, Mickey pats his back.

“Stupid fucking walnuts.”

.

Mickey’s mortified when Ian gathers his family into the Gallagher living room and pulls out Mickey’s epi-pen.

Ever since he nearly “died,” which Ian reminds him constantly of, he’s been a bit obsessive about this whole allergy thing. They’ve already got three of those fucking things. One sits in the kitchen drawer, one is in the drawer on their nightstand, and one more Ian insisted Mickey leave at work. Now he’s got another one. He gets up to hide himself in the upstairs bathroom, unwilling to submit himself to the humiliation.

 “Alright everybody, this is an epinephrine pen.”

Ian proceeds to show them how it works. “All you have to do, in case of an emergency, is read the directions on the side. Any questions before I move on…”

Carl begins to ask if Mickey’s face puffed up like a balloon, but Ian ignores him. Debbie raises her hand. “Yes, Debbie.”

“I’m sorry for almost killing your boyfriend.”

“Debs, it’s okay.” Ian reassures the younger red head. A lot has changed, but she still has that streak of nervousness in her. “You couldn’t have known my fiancé was allergic to walnuts, alright?”

“Alright.” She nods. “Wait a minute…”

“What?!” The Gallaghers shout in unison, and suddenly there’s an explosion of questions.

“Shh. Keep it down, he doesn’t know yet.”

“IAN! You can’t call him your fiancé if he hasn’t said yes!” Debbie yells without thinking. “Oh, Sorry.”

.

The dining room is as lively as it always is every Thanksgiving.

Mandy had arrived and was wedged between Debbie and Mickey. Veronica took a seat at the table and Kevin dropped the twins off at the kids table set up in the living room. Carl was flicking peas at Liam from across the room, some of them getting stuck in his hair. Mickey put his head in his hands. Well, this was going to be a long fucking night.

Ian helps Fiona in the kitchen, spooning mashed potatoes into a bowl. He moves onto the stuffing and checks it over carefully.

“I already checked.” Fiona says as she pulls the turkey out of the oven. “You don’t have to worry about it. I already checked.”

“Oh. Thanks…”

“Listen, Ian.” Fiona sets the turkey on top of the dormant burners, and turns to face him. She bites her lip thinking of what she’s about to say. “I know we don’t always get along, but…I’m happy you have Mickey.”

Ian doesn’t say a word, but gives her his full attention. “He’s good for you, and I hope things work out.”

“Thanks.” Ian says, honesty in his voice. “That means a lot. Really.”

 .

Halfway through dinner, Ian gets everybody’s attention slamming his hand on the table a couple times.

“Alright guys, shut the fuck up. I’ve got something important to say!”

Everything goes quiet. If this is about that damn epi-pen again, Mickey swears he is walking out that door and driving home without him.

“As you all know, we had a scary moment recently and it made me think about a lot of things.” Ian begins. Mickey rolls his eyes, taking a sip of his beer. This’ll be good. “…and what I realized was that, something so small and insignificant can take a good thing away forever.”  

Ian brings his arm around Mickey’s shoulder and Mickey glares at him, but remains quiet. He bites his lip to stop himself from snapping at him. He knows he almost died, he doesn’t need a reminder.

“Mickey, it sounds stupid and cliché but you’ve always been there for me and I can’t imagine a day without you by my side and...”

Mickey’s expression softens, and oh no he’s looking right at him. He can’t look away. This is really fucking awkward. “…and I couldn’t live with myself if something happened and I didn’t…I never asked…”

Realization dawns on Mandy and she covers her mouth. Veronica does the same, a couple tears threatening to let loose.

“Mickey.” Ian places his hand over his, and entwines their fingers. Mickey’s heart beats a little faster. “Will you marry me?”

“Yes.” Mickey says too quickly, and Ian’s lips are on his own. Veronica lets out the scream she’d been holding in and there’s tears and shouting and laughter.

“Just no fucking walnuts in the cake, alright?” Mickey says, breaking the kiss.

“No shit.” Ian says, nudging Mickey’s nose with his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please note that rescue inhalers wont actually do much at all, if you're having an anaphylactic reaction to something. Ian was panicking, and trying anything to help Mickey.


	11. Rug Burn

“So when did you want to do this shit?” Mickey gives Ian a sideways glance from the couch, wearing a pair of Ian’s sweats on a particularly cold Sunday. It hasn't snowed yet, but the temperatures are dropping. He doesn't know how Ian could walk around in his boxers like it’s nothing, the cold settling into Mickey's bones despite the layers. Ian is moving around in the kitchen, making peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. He licks the grape jelly off his fingers, as well as the knife he uses to cut them in half. Placing them on plates and putting them on a tray, he walks over to the living room and plants the tray right on top of the coffee table.

“Do what?” Ian says, still licking his fingers.

“This uh-” Mickey bites his thumb in the corner of his lip, his other hand holding the game controller. Ever since the Thanksgiving proposal, he’s been thinking about it. They don’t have any plans yet. No rings. No suits. No guest list. Nothing. Just this promise. “This whole marriage thing.”

“Well, I was kind of hoping the marriage would be a forever thing.” Ian says before biting into one half of his sandwich. He chews for a moment. “That’s the whole point right?”

“Fuck you, you know what I mean…” That _was_ the point, wasn't it? Mickey thought to himself, or at least that's what he's heard. He hasn't seen a lot of in-the-flesh working models, but that’s the fucking point. You marry someone who makes you happy to wake up in the morning and all that flowery shit, and you stick together through sickness and in health or something like that. The words echo in his head, having heard them before, but they never carried any real meaning to him until now. The bruises and the aches and pains and the hospital visits and the medicine and the therapy and the counselors – _you stick together through sickness and in health –_ and haven’t they done that shit already?

 “I mean the…”

“Wedding?” Ian replies, wiping crumbs off his shirt. He nudges one of the sandwiches towards Mickey. “Eat it. I made it for you.”

“Yeah.” Mickey sets the game controller beside the tray, and picks up one half of the sandwich Ian made him. He pulls the crust away from the bread and takes a bite of the white.

“I don’t know.” Ian shrugs. “We still have a lot of planning to do, I think we should wait a few-”

“Nah, no.” Mickey interrupts. “No, man. Let’s just – Why don’t we do it like next month, or something?”

“What? Mickey.” Ian says a bit taken aback by his quick response. “We have like expenses and shit to think about and next month is holiday season and…”

“Don’t worry about that shit.” Mickey sets his sandwich down, and picks up his game controller again. He plays with the options on the menu screen of their television, avoiding the perplexed look on Ian’s face. He shrugs. “Let’s just get that shit done.”

“That shit?” Ian examines Mickey’s cool demeanor, looking for some sign. His blank expression isn't giving him any leeway in his exploration. It’s moments like this where Ian wishes he could tune into Mickey’s brain.

“Is this about the fiancé thing? What, you hate the word or something?” Ian smiles devilishly, and nudges Mickey’s shoulder a few times jokingly. He's been using that word nonstop now. The corners of Mickey’s lips can’t help but perk up a little before falling flat again.

“No, just. Why wait? Why make the whole _wedding_ thing a big deal.”

Ian deflates a little. Why make the whole wedding thing a big deal? Not that he was into making a big show of it, but he wanted it to be special and memorable. He wanted it to be so good and happy, and at the same time a big fuck you to the universe because look what they accomplished despite everything and fuck, if anything made Ian truly happy it was beating the odds and fuck you Frank, sometimes hard work does make a difference. He wanted to celebrate it all. To see Mickey all dressed up, the suit snug in all the right places. To hold Mickey close to his body, swaying back and forth in a crowd of people. To make this their own special day, carefully put together by themselves and he would let Mickey choose everything. He would – the colors, the food, the guests, the place, the suits, the rings – he would have him choose it all, but Mickey is choosing this...

Ian licks his lips, and eyes the other controller in front of him. “Rainbow road. Best of five rounds. Winner gets to choose.”

Mickey’s eyebrows raise, and he tosses Ian the other controller. "Fine, but you're going down."

.

“You’re fucking cheating!” Mickey shouts when Ian shoves himself in Mickey’s way.

The score is two to two and Mickey is far ahead of him with Mario putting the pedal to the metal going into the third lap. This is the last game, and despite the grim circumstances Ian has not yet given up all resolve to win this thing. Luigi smashes into a mystery box and Ian holds his breath as the options before him shuffle.

“YES!” Ian says too loudly, and launches his weapon of choice. Mickey realizes a moment too late that the blue shell is headed his way, not that he could have done much had he known. The blue shell slams into Mario who spins out, and Luigi passes him with his infamous death stare.

“FUCK YOU” Mickey tackles Ian to the ground in desperation, just avoiding the hard edges of the coffee table, hoping to distract him from the course and recover in just enough time to make it to the finish line. Ian hisses as his knees burn from the friction against the carpet, but keeps all eyes focused on that black and white checkered line.

“YES YES YES YES” Ian shouts as Luigi pulls in first. He jumps up, and Mickey hops off his back. Throwing the controller down, Mickey walks away to the kitchen to grab himself a beer.

“I WON.” Ian continues to shout, and it takes all he has to restrain himself from doing laps around the house.  

“Fine, we’ll do this shit your way.” Mickey whines. “Happy now?” 

.

“Ouch. Got a few rug burns.” Ian says, looking over his damaged pink knees. Mickey ignores him, laying on his side and Ian laughs to himself, as he slides into bed beside the fuming Milkovich. “That was intense.”

“So.” Ian begins after a moment of silence passes. “You just gonna lay there and be pissy about it all night, or are you gonna actually tell me what this is all about?”

“It’s nothing. You won. Congrats. Goodnight.” Mickey pulls a pillow over his head defiantly, refusing to entertain the question any further. Not even if Ian’s hands sliding across his upper ribs make his body jerk uncontrollably. Not even if Ian palms his dick and fingers him open real slow like he likes it, is he going to deal with this shit tonight, but Ian has no intention of using underhanded tactics to get him to talk. Instead, Ian curls up against him and pets his abdomen in a constant calming motion, feeling the tension there. “S’okay, I just kinda wanna know why, with the wedding - _is it embarrassing to you_?”

He feels Mickey’s stomach muscles retract and his chest hum at that, but Mickey’s reply is muffled under the pillows and Ian can’t actually hear it. He pulls the pillow up slightly, and scootches in real close so Mickey can feel his hot breath on his ears. It warms him slightly on this cool night. 

“It was humiliating.” Mickey repeats, his voice low and trembling.

Sudden realization hits Ian like a ton of brinks, and it’s a place in time he really doesn’t want to revisit. He's tried erasing it, and caught up in his own imagination of their future wedding, he's almost been successful at it. He doesn't want to go back there, when he felt so hurt and angry and out of control, burning with rage as Mickey’s hand held hers and as Terry looked on satisfied with _his_ display and it really was all his. It was his suit, his friends, his stolen food and his son. It was all about him, and Ian feels himself tense up alongside Mickey, angry still that he’s such a haunt even a couple years after his death.

“It’ll be different.” Ian mutters. He continues to stroke Mickey’s skin, willing them both to relax. “We’ll make it better. We’ll make it so much better.”

Mickey clasps Ian’s hand and holds it still against his body. He squeezes his eyes shut and snuggles into his side as their bodies take up one fourth of their bed. Ian kisses his neck. “It'll be so good, and we'll take our time to make it perfect. Okay?"

"Okay." Mickey mumbles quietly. 

"Goodnight fiancé.” With that, Mickey once again can’t help the corners of his mouth from perking up. This time they stay there in a content grin as he falls asleep against Ian's warm chest. 

"Night."


	12. Shin Splints

Mickey grumbles as he climbs up the ladder for the fifth time on a Thursday, pulling a set of snow tires from the shelf and handing them off to his coworker Bryan below. It’s good money, but this time of the year is always a pain in the ass with everyone hurrying to get their snow tires on before winter really hits. They’ve been full up all week.

It doesn’t help that the ladder is flimsy either. Bryan would get it, but he’s a big guy and having to deal with workplace falls and the potential lawsuits aren’t something their boss is willing to deal with. So he stands below keeping the ladder steady. Mickey doesn’t understand why they have to store the snow tires so inefficiently, but then again he doesn’t understand the reason behind the majority of what his boss thinks and does. Every day is a battle between wanting to rant about it and keeping his mouth shut to keep his job. He considers staging a coup, but his coworkers are bumbling morons and it would never work.

After passing the tires to Bryan who then loops his arms through them and carries them off, Mickey wipes his brow and descends the ladder. The ladder shakes slightly with each step but he eventually plants his feet on the floor safely, and heads out to the SUV they’re working on. A dull ache settles into his shin bones, but he shakes it out.

.

Fridays are usually good because Ian and Mickey both get out early. Usually good, because right now Ian is insisting they go food shopping together. Mickey wants to lay his ass on the couch and veg out for the rest of the weekend, but goes with Ian anyways. He argues that it’s just so he can make sure Ian buys the right chips, but it turns out he actually likes spending time with Ian more than being home alone.

He doesn’t tell him that though, not wanting him to use it to his advantage. _He is not going to that Christmas themed office party_ , no matter how much he likes being with him. Not when last year was a fucking disaster.

Going to the supermarket at night is always fun because it’s nearly empty, and they feel more comfortable being themselves. No judgmental grandmas or screaming children or impatient muscle heads. Walking in the door, Ian grabs a cart and glides down an aisle like a little kid. He grabs a couple cans of tomato sauce and throws it into the cart.

“Hurry up, slowpoke” He taunts to Mickey who is wobbling slowly behind him. His shins throbbed with a dull ached all yesterday, but today they were hurting like a bitch. Ian stops to inspect a bag of pizza dough when Mickey catches up to him. “You’re walking a little funny.”

“Powerful observation skills, asswipe.” Mickey retorts, grabbing the pizza dough out of Ian’s hands and throwing them into the cart.

Ian just shrugs. “I’m kind of jealous.”

“Of my fucked up shins?” Mickey’s eyebrows knit together, confused.

“No, no… _of work_.” Ian clarifies, grinning to himself. “If anything’s gonna make you walk funny, it better be me.”

Mickey grins back and slaps his ass playfully, and Ian turns the cart and scurries down another aisle. He picks up an item from the shelf and places it in the cart before Mickey can see what it is.

“The fuck is that?”

“Bubble bath.” 

.

Ian starts to fill up the tub and squirts a good amount of bubble bath into the accumulating warm water. He’s already stripped down to nothing, and Mickey is pulling off his socks while sitting on the edge of their bed.

The bath continues to fill, as Ian walks into their bedroom. He kisses Mickey’s lips and pushes him gently onto the bed so he can pull off his clothes. His hands work to unbuckle his belt and unbutton his jeans, his mouth not leaving Mickey’s in the process.

Slipping his hands into the waistband, he pushes the jeans down his hips and past his knees. They break away for Mickey to pull his shirt over his head and toss it on the floor. Pants discarded, Mickey wraps his legs around Ian’s sides and arches up, his cock hardening as he rubs against Ian’s thigh. Ian stills his hips in his hands, pressing them against the bed.

“Hold on. Bath should be ready.”

Mickey sighs, and allows Ian to help him off the bed.

.

Ian scoots in first, his back resting against the edge of the tub. Mickey follows, sitting up against Ian. The warm water soothes their bodies, and they rest a moment without moving. Underneath the bubbles, Ian’s hands being to stroke Mickey’s cock lazily. The groans Mickey emits are low, as he closes his eyes and rests against Ian. Soon the groans turn into snores, and Ian chuckles to himself.

“You awake.” Ian whispers, poking Mickey’s cheek, but Mickey doesn’t respond. Ian can feel the energy leave him, and he’s like a deadweight against his chest. “Guess you’re really knocked out.”

His hands move over Mickey’s belly, and upwards to rub his sides but Mickey still doesn’t stir. Ian thinks for a moment, and then has to fight to keep himself from grinning too wide. Picking up the sudsy bubble all around them he carefully places them on Mickey’s chin and builds from there. He tries not to move too much so as not to awaken the sleeping man, but doesn’t stop until Mickey has a full bubble beard.

Content with his work, Ian wraps his arms around the edges of the tub and leans back, reveling in the warm water. After a minute or two, Mickey snorts and sputters awake sending bubbles into the air around them.

“What the…” Mickey slaps his own face with both hands, feeling a tickling sensation there. The bubbles pop and float around the bathtub. “What the fuck is this?”

Ian’s chest trembles, before he erupts into full belly laughs, water splashing over the sides of the tub. “I gave you a bubble beard!”

“You think this shit is funny?!” Mickey turns around looks at him seriously, which only makes Ian laugh more. “I’ll show you funny!”    

With that Mickey pushes Ian’s shoulders down and dunks him under the water, for a few seconds. Ian whines that his hair is going to poof out if it gets wet, and moves to tickle Mickey’s sides. More water ends up on the floor, than down the drain, as the two of them play fight their way through bath time. In bed, they fall asleep side by side, occasionally poking and tickling and kicking at one another until their eyes fail to stay open any longer and their limbs refuse to move.


	13. Nerves

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kind comments on this work, and sticking with me through each chapter. This is my first completed multi-chapter fic, and I thought it appropriate to end it here. I might write more in the NPP universe, but I think my work is done with this one and I hope you find that the ending is fitting. I really do.

Ian carefully climbed over the sleeping Milkovich, to turn off the buzzing alarm of his phone as it sat on the nightstand. It was conveniently set to ring at the same time every morning, with reminders when to take his medicine along with the appropriate dosage; an app that Debbie had shown him a couple years ago. Getting into a routine made everything more manageable, but as a certain day neared, he was nervous something would go wrong. More specifically, that his brain would fuck everything up.

He tried to do everything right. He tried to eat healthier, and quit drinking save for special occasions. He exercised daily, running still but at consistent times. He documented his insomnia, and found healthier outlets for his mania.

Mania was like feeling good, feeling _too_ good sometimes, and not knowing what to do with all the energy building up inside of him. After talking to his therapist, he sat down with Debbie and Mickey and they came up with a long list of things he could do use that energy in better ways. He took to running, cleaning up the house, fixing it up, and dinner dates with Mickey every Friday. It helped that Mickey didn’t hover, that he trusted him to handle himself, but he would let him know if things were getting out of hand. It took a lot of time, and initial frustration. There were arguments and moments they both wish they could take back, but what they had right now worked.

Not many are afraid of the heights themselves, so much as they’re afraid of the potential fall. For him, the fall was inevitable, but the higher and higher he got, the scarier it became. He remembers the first time he fell. It was as if he was dropped inside a dark labyrinth with every sin and sorrow engraved on every wall surrounding him. Screaming at him, forcing him to the floor. Depression was like a beast at the end of the maze, waiting to slay him, and the guilt and regret and loss and sadness pulled him toward it closer and closer. It was hard that first time. It is difficult every time, but it was especially hard the first time. Now he had a way out, a thread to lead the way. He could talk about it, now. He stuck to his routines, even when he felt tired, demotivated and useless.

It was the depression that took longer _for Mickey_ to know how to handle, and how to empathize. He understood falling down, he had done so many times. He didn’t understand not getting up. It made him angry, and it made him feel powerless. He hated that, and somehow all of that made Ian feel worse. As if he was a burden, to which made Mickey angrier – not at Ian – but at this seemingly never ending cycle of guilt that was controlling his life. He was willing to try anything though, at least try it once. Ian’s therapist was open to taking to them as a couple which helped him better understand what he could and should do.  

Along with regularly taking his medication, the three of them – Ian, Mickey, and Ian’s therapist – began forming the strong thread necessary that would make it easier for Ian to come out of a depressive episode. Still, with all the tools in place and having managed his condition for a few years now, he had a sinking feeling that everything would fall apart on one of the most important days of his life. He tried to stay focused, but he was still anxious something could or would go wrong.

Ian took a deep breath, and headed to the bathroom to take his meds out of the medicine cabinet. They sat right beside one of Mickey’s epi-pens and for a moment Ian laughed to himself. _We’re a mess, but a working mess_. They would never be perfect, and he’s at peace with that. You kind of have to when you’re choosing to marry someone. What mattered is that you tried, he affirmed to himself.  

.

  _Alright, this is it_.

He had called Mandy to ask if she would go with him, and being the long faithful friend that she was, of course she had agreed – plus there was free food in it for her. They made a lunch date for today’s date, and ever since he’d been a little worked up. Coupled with the anxieties around his mental state, picking out the perfect ring was a whole other challenge.

“What do you think he’ll like?” Ian said as he joined Mandy who had arrived early, and had already been seated.

“Hello to you to?” She responded, slurping her milkshake through a bright red straw. “You’re paying for this a’ight”

“Oh yeah, hi. Of course.” Ian took of his jacket and set it beside him in the diner booth. “How are things?”

“Things are good.” Mandy sighed. “Toby likes to snuggle, wakes me up with kisses every morning, it’s real cute.”

“Toby? I thought you didn’t want to date for a while” Ian’s brows furrowed. A few months prior, Mandy had sworn off dating. At least dating men, she said. “Listen, if he gives you any trouble –”

“Toby is a dog, Ian.” Mandy smirked, and handed over her phone. A picture of a red-furred Irish terrier pup was set as her background.  

“Oh he’s cute. Red, huh?” Mandy kicked Ian under the table.

“Anyways, to answer your question, maybe something natural looking?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, I heard rings made from walnut are all the rage these days.” Mandy grinned.

“That’s not even funny.” Ian deadpanned. “No seriously, gold or silver or what?”

“Silver.”

“Yeah, I think so too.”

“Then why did you ask me.” Mandy said, as a waitress came by and set a basket of fries in front of them. Ian stole one and popped it in his mouth, before she could slap his hand away.

“I needed a second opinion.”

.

“So I proposed to you.” Ian says to Mickey as they sit on the couch watching a movie with their dinners out in front of them on trays.

“Yep.”

“So you’re my fiancé.”

“…yep.”

“So –”

“Is this going anywhere?” Mickey says, taking a bite into his BLT.

“I went with Mandy to go find our rings.” Ian let Mickey chew for a moment, but Mickey didn’t say anything afterwards. “I-I know you weren’t too excited about the idea of going, so I figured it’d be a better idea to go with her, and I hope it’s okay – ”

“Do you have it? Can I see it?” Mickey says, putting his sandwich down.

“Yeah.” Ian gets up off the couch, and walks over to the kitchen where he’d stored the rings in a drawer. “Yeah here.”

Ian watched as Mickey opened the small velvet box that contained his ring inside of it. He pulled out the silver band and looked it over in his hand, before slipping it on his ring finger. The band was loose, but the color was a deep silver and the surface was polished. It was a bit thicker than the wedding band he wore last, stronger too.

“It’s loose now, but we’ll just have to resize it. I hope you like it. I hope the color’s alright, didn’t want – ” Mickey cut him off again, this time with a kiss to his lips.

“I love it a lot.”

.

Despite the positive response, Ian found himself tossing and turning that night. He stared up at the ceiling hoping to be carried off to dreamland at any moment, but could not force his eyes to stay shut. He felt anxious still, and felt foolish. He shouldn’t be. Everything was fine. His routines were in order. Mandy’s got a dog. Mickey likes the ring. It’s fine. It’s all fine. He turned on his side for the hundredth time, when Mickey threw an arm around his waist and pulled him in closer to his body.

“g’to sleep” Mickey slurs, halfway to dreamland himself.

“I’m trying” Ian sighs, and pets Mickey’s arm. He stares up at the ceiling for another five minutes, and tries to shift to his other side on impulse when Mickey’s arm tightens around him. “I just, I can’t. I can’t okay. I can’t sleep. I just can’t. _Fuck_.”

Mickey lifts his body up, and turns on the bedside lamp. His black hair sticks up in all different directions and he rubs his eyes with the palm of his hands, letting out a wide yawn. Ian sits up beside him and hugs his knees.

“Alright.” Mickey yawns again, and scratches his belly. “What is this about?”

“I…” Ian waits a moment, trying to form the words carefully in his head before uttering them. “I don’t want to ruin everything.”

Ian searched Mickey for understanding, but the man stared blankly at him in his three am haze. “Y’know. The wedding.”

“Ah.” Mickey says, blinking a few times. “How the fuck you gonna mess it up.”

“I don’t know. What if – what if the big day hits and I can’t get out of bed or I’m who the fuck knows where and everyone is just standing around like what the fuck, not again.”

“What?” Mickey laughs a little.

“I’m serious Mickey.” Ian changes his tone, a bit more stern. “I don’t want to disappoint you again.”

“…again?”

“Yeah, again.” Ian mumbles, staring down at his feet. “Barely got to fucking celebrate for two fucking days after he got arrested, and then I’m fucked up. Useless.”

“I wasn’t disappointed.” Mickey mumbles back. “Look at me, alright?”

Ian looks up hesitantly, seeing the serious expression on Mickey’s face. The man looks much more awake than he did a minute ago. “I wasn’t disappointed, Ian. I was scared, okay? – and nervous, kind of how you are now.”

“What…”

“You’re nervous.” Mickey says. “And it’s okay.”

“I just feel like I’m gonna fuck up, and I hate not being normal. I hate this.” Ian sighs, feeling defeated for a moment.

“Hey.” Mickey’s expression softens. He reaches out a hand to hold onto Ian’s knee. He grips his fingers around it, and shakes him a little which causes Ian to look back at him again. “It’s normal people problems, man. We all think we’re gonna fuck up, or get fucked over when it matters most”

“And what if I do? What if something goes wrong, and I mess up? I fall out of my routine. I stop caring. I–” Ian says.

“I’ll still love you.”


End file.
